


loneliness (like an old friend)

by aecusfalcon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gen, He's Embarrassing, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Loneliness, Nabatea was a large and diverse culture, Some Fluff, don't read if you haven't gotten their A support really, heavy spoilers, i meant to write this for the fluff but it got serious, seteth got around back in the day JFLAKJSDFLK
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-13 19:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20588138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aecusfalcon/pseuds/aecusfalcon
Summary: He hasn’t told her how long she’s been asleep. He fears if he tells her it’s been well over one hundred years she’ll have trouble going back to sleep. So he keeps quiet. He watches as Cethleann follows the pattern he set for her to follow. He’s teaching her how to sew, and she’s picking up on it quickly.He feels bad, blames himself even, that he dragged her into a war she never should have been part of. A war that shouldn’t have even happened, and yet... And yet it did and it’s just them.





	loneliness (like an old friend)

When he first appeared in Zanado, holding his slumbering daughter in his arms, Cichol’s gaze was haunted. Once brilliant green shining with hope and ambition, now dulled by the horrors they bore witness to. The loss of their people, the loss of his wife, the ensuing war, shadow his every step. Seiros offered him a place by her side to oversee the reconstruction of Fodlan, but he denied knowing he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he left Cethleann alone.

Staring out at the canyon painted red with the blood of his people made him start to feel nauseous. Once he held sweet memories of this place he called home as a child, now there is nothing but mountains of grief burying those memories. The ruins of his home are a monument to his sorrow. 

It was a tiring trek before he found the place he once called home, the place where his mother and father raised him, where he shared meals with his siblings, where he would take the love of his life to meet his large and abundantly happy family. It is the first place he took his daughter out of his home in Enbarr, and it seems it will be the last place for a long time. 

Returning home should be a joyous occasion, but where there should be the sound of children’s laughter, echoes a hollow wind. It’s tragic that such a prosperous place would fall into decay and ruin.

He stands quietly at the doorway, looking at the mess that was made of his ancestral home. Decaying fabrics lay strewn on the floor and cups lay on their sides, whatever in them spilled and dried up long ago. Brown splatters stain the walls and rugs and the chairs, whatever left of his family picked clean to the last bone, then taken and created into vile weapons.

Cichol sighs, his eyes feel heavy as he passes by each room, (the sign of a struggle in a few of them, then that brown that could only have been blood, and he knows.) He finally stops at his old room, thick layers of dust coating what little he left behind. Gently laying Cethleann in the bed, he sits on the edge and brushes her hair out of her face.

“Wake soon, Cethleann,” he murmurs before bending over and placing a kiss on her forehead.

He waits.

Cichol only leaves for a few hours per year to stock up on supplies, mostly for himself, but he always bought more just in case Cethleann wakes up. Each time he went out he makes sure to go to an entirely new village or stop a different traveling merchant so as not to raise and suspicions about his ageless body. Books are what kept him going back for the most part, he thinks, it reminds him of simpler times that he knows he can never return to.

He’s since cleaned up the home, fixed what he could and threw out most of his old belongings. There’s a few new decorations he’s put in place to try and fill the emptiness. Nothing could ever fill that void, though, a painful truth he knows all too well. One he tries not to think of too often.

He often thought about visiting his wife’s grave at Rhodos Coast, but decides against it each time the thought crosses his mind. He doesn’t even know if it’s still there. It could be gone, desecrated, robbed just like everything else he loved.

Besides, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he left Cethleann for so long.

So now he sits and eats a meal for one at an empty table. 

The loneliness would drive any man mad, so he buys a new fishing rod after two hundred years, the wound of his wife’s death still feeling too fresh to actually fish. He lets the rod sit in the corner of his room most of the time and eyes it warily, then fixes his attention on a book he started to write but can’t quite figure out how to finish.

Cichol buys a violin the 250th year and tries to hone his skill once more. The last he played was for his late wife’s birthday, she was always particularly fond his fiddling rather than his more somber tunes.

By the 300th year of waiting he has completely remastered the violin and finishes his first fable. He starts to teach himself how to sew and do fabric work, his old clothes tattered from overuse and stained from sweat and tears.

Eventually he doesn’t try hard to keep track of how long it’s been. He hones his body and skills, attempts to fish, make changes to their home in what ways he can. Until eventually he is worn down and exhausted, stumbling into Cethleann’s room and falling to his knees. She sleeps still, the only sign of her being alive her steady breathing and the low thrum of magic in his sensitive ears.

He rests his head on the edge of her bed and grabs her hand gently. “Please wake up.” A plea; to Cethleann, to the Goddess, he doesn’t know. He falls asleep like that.

He’s pulled out of his sleep when he feels a tugging on his hand and the rustling of fabric. He snaps his eyes open immediately, looking at Cethleann. He rises from his knees (now aching from being on the floor like that for so long) and sits instead on the edge of the bed.

“Cethleann?” He tries cautiously, best not to get his hopes up.

She shifts, eyes cracking open slightly, blearily, tiredly. “Father,” said in such a soft voice it’s easy to miss.

He weeps that day, tears of relief flowing down his cheeks freely.

Life moves on. He hasn’t heard from Seiros– or Macuil and Indech, for that matter, but he finds he doesn’t mind that much.

“Good morning, father.”

Cichol turns and his gaze softened, “Good morning, Cethleann. I’m trying to catch a meal for later.”

Cethleann sits down on the dock beside him and dangles her feet off the edge, careful not to disturb any of the fish below. They sit like that for a while in their silent stupor, until, eventually, “Father?”

“Yes, Cethleann?”

“Did you forget to put the bait on the hook again?”

Cichol clicks his tongue against the top of his mouth and starts to pull in his line. He sighs when he pulls the hook out of the water to find nothing on it, “It appears I did… Your mother could never teach me how to put it on properly.”

“I remember you were always too busy watching mother’s face,” she laughs.

Cichol stands up, his rod forgotten on the dock as he starts to roll up his pant legs, “Well, I suppose I will have to do this the old fashioned way.”

Cethleann stares in partial horror, partial embarrassment as she watches her father dive into the water. He is _ actively choosing _ to catch fish this way. While she is very fond of _ eating _ fish, she is _ not _ fond of her father making a fool of himself by fishing with his bare hands. Her mother might have been impressed by this skill, but Cethleann is nothing short of _ embarrassed_, hiding her face behind her hands because it’s too hard to watch.

The surface of the water stills and Cethlean worries her lip. At last, Cichol surfaces, he smiles and lifts his arm, a decent sized fish trying to flail about as he holds it by the gills. He trudges out of the water, soaked to the bone as he throws it onto the shore of the lake and falls down into the grass, breathing heavily.

“It has been- a while since- I’ve done that.” He says in between breaths. 

“Father, you could have just put the bait on your fishing rod.”

He sits up, wringing out his hair (now too long, in his opinion) and squeezing what water he can out of his clothes. “I suppose I could have. However, there can always be something said about practice in technique and strength when catching fish with one’s own hands.”

She pouts in response and he laughs. 

Cichol picks up the fish and starts heading back to their home.

They have fish stew and bread that night. (One chair empty, an unspoken tradition Cichol’s kept up that Cethleann doesn’t question because she knows; that’s for her mother.)

He hasn’t told her how long she’s been asleep. He fears if he tells her it’s been well over one hundred years she’ll have trouble going back to sleep. So he keeps quiet. He watches as Cethleann follows the pattern he set for her to follow. He’s teaching her how to sew, and she’s picking up on it quickly.

He feels awful, blames himself even, that he dragged her into a war she never should have been part of. A war that shouldn’t have even happened, and yet. And yet it did and it’s just them.

“Have you heard from Lady Seiros, father?” She asks as she looks up from her work, seeming to have picked up on his shift in mood.

“Not recently,” is his response.

“What about Uncle Macuil and Uncle Indech?”

“Indech is hiding at the bottom of Lake Teutates, and last I heard of Macuil he left for the Sreng region.”

“How disappointing. I had hoped we would be able to live together. It is just us anymore, after all.”

He sighs. She has a point. It is only them, and it’s only them that can keep Nabatea alive. But now they’re miles apart and years separated.

He doesn’t tell her that he doesn’t even know if they’re alive anymore. From what he’s been able to gather, though, Lady Seiros lives on and heads the Church she founded all those years ago.

It’s ironic, he thinks, how Nemesis was the one to kill them all but it was one of their own who hammered the final nail in the coffin by erasing them from history. He wonders if people even remember why that war happened, if they even _ remember _ it.

“Yes,” he agrees, “it is rather disappointing. But you know Indech preferred solitary, and I am certain Macuil still holds a grudge against me.”

“Macuil liked getting me candies, he’s not that terrible.”

Cichol laughs, “No, maybe not to you.”

He has a history with them, long before Cethleann was born, long before he knew Midir. (How he misses her so.) It’s always such a tricky topic of conversation whenever she prodded. 

Macuil’s family was close to his when they were growing up, they’re the closest in age, and yet they couldn’t be more different. Macuil and his pessimism like toxin. Cichol and his quiet yearning for something more and something better. He tried to impress him, following him around until one day Macuil left to pursue his own goals. It was a bitter split, Cichol regrets the words only an arrogant man would say to one of even more arrogance.

He met Indech just a little before he met his would-be wife, at the time Indech was training to be a guard in Zanado. He was always a quiet man, shy and anxious and hardly leaving any impressions because of how he shrunk into his shell whenever someone spoke to him. Yet when his woodwork and art and music was brought into attention it was like discovering someone’s masterpiece for the very first time no matter how many times they’ve seen it. They were _ compatible_, he thought, and he’ll never forget the first time they danced together in an inn so very far away from Zanado. Cichol still thinks fondly back to their friendship, and at times wonders if he always wanted something more from him.

He didn’t see them again until his people were slaughtered and he was called to battle even though he was anything but a soldier. He met Seiros then (though he recalls meeting her once before, the last daughter of the Goddess herself); her words a resounding crash in the aftershock of a tidal wave. He was not a soldier, yet when she first gave her speech to the last survivors of Nabatea he felt he could be one. He trusted her, and she trusted him in matters of emotions that plagued her. Where Indech was her skilled guard, Macuil her tactician and blacksmith, Cichol was her voice of reason.

He remembers, after years of preparation, reuniting in Enbarr, and the war that came.

That was nearly eight-hundred years ago, but for Cethleann it must feel like just a matter of days. _ Tell her tell her tell her. _

“Something seems to be troubling you, father.”

“No, it is nothing. Do not worry yourself over me, Cethleann. Let me see your needlework.”

She holds it out for him and he takes it, running his hands over the work and nodding, “Excellent, you’re catching on quite quickly.”

“Father?”

“Yes, Cethleann?”

“I must admit, I do not recall you ever being good at sewing.”

“Ah. I had some free time to teach myself. Your mother tried once before, I suppose I finally followed up on it.”

“You refuse to take me with you to any of the surrounding towns.”

“There are dangerous people.”

“You were crying when I awakened.”

“I was relieved you were alright. You sustained heavy injuries, not to mention the power you used to heal our allies. I was beside myself with worry, as per my duty as your father.”

“I am not a _ child _anymore, father. I have fought in a war beside you. Whatever it is that you are keeping from me will not leave me a broken mess.”

Cichol doesn’t respond.

“You look far more tired than you have ever been in your life and you… You look older. And you still have not told me. How long was I asleep?”

Cichol is silent in response, eyes cast to the fabric in his hands and brows furrowed. He can’t imagine how it must feel for her. Waking up to a world that has changed completely and yet the horrors of a war long passed must be recent in her mind’s eye. He hasn’t told her because of this.

“Your silence speaks volumes.”

“Seven hundred and ninety-four years… You were asleep for seven hundred and ninety-four years.”

The silence that follows is deafening. He glances up, the sadness and loneliness visible all at once. Cethleann’s gripping the fabric of her dress, were he anyone else he wouldn’t be able to read her face.

He knows guilt like the back of his own hand. (Like an old friend showing up unannounced and uninvited.)

She doesn’t sleep much after the truth comes out, his fears vindicated. Cichol doesn’t miss the bags that are starting to form under her eyes or how quiet she’s become. It makes his heart ache.

“Cethleann, you need to sleep.” He urges one night from the doorway of her room. She’s still awake and it’s the middle of the night. She use to fall asleep quickly and early, hardly ever putting it off when there’s always a promise of tomorrow.

“I don’t want to fall asleep,” tears forming at the corners of her eyes, “I do not want to fall asleep and leave you alone like that again, father. I do not want to wake up and find everything has changed again and you are gone this time.”

The distress in her voice is near palpable in the air, suffocating. His chest aches. Cichol crosses the room and sits on the edge of her cot, “I will stay with you all night, if that will make you feel any better.”

“I cannot sleep, father. I cannot.” She insists, her voice quivering. It pains him to see her like this, it pains him she needed sleep for so long just to survive. 

(It’s his fault.)

“I will wake you in the morning. I promise. Please, Cetleann, you need to sleep.”

She must have passed out from pure exhaustion, which only raises the question how long had she been awake. He worries about her, and will continue to do so for as long as he has left to live. (Time will come when his worry grows tenfold. The paranoia preying on his mind when they return to civilization.)

He upholds his promise to her and wakes her in the morning. She asks him how long it’s been, he answers truthfully. (_Eight hours or so?_)

The have breakfast in silence for the most part, until he clears his throat. “I need to go in town for supplies and an update on the world around us.”

Cethleann’s eyes light up, “Can I go with you this time? Please, I am growing restless in this place. I wish to see everything.”

“That is why I brought it up with you. I believe we are due for a change in view. At least, for a day or so.”

She grins in response and finishes off the rest of her food with fervor. “Excellent. I shall go get ready.”

“Not quite yet. There are rules that we must discuss first. The world has completely changed in your long slumber.”

The smile on her face fades and she sits back down at the table, “What do you mean, father?”

Cichol sighs and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, “I suppose I should tell you everything that I have gathered from the few merchants I’ve spoken to over the years. You deserve to know.”

She nods as the go ahead. She must already have questions, _ many _ of them, but never got around to asking him about it.

“Following the War, Seiros continued on with the church she created for the War. It’s currently called the Church of Seiros and is the main power in Fódlan. She still heads it, at least, that’s if my theory is correct, and I suspect it is. However I…” He lets out a breath, “I have not been able to find any records of Nabatea. Our literature…culture…all gone. As if it’s been wiped from history. I don’t know what Seiros is thinking doing that…but I have to believe it is to keep us safe from those that might try and pursue us for our blood. Additionally, we were essentially deified in Seiros’ church, we’re called _ saints _. Thus you cannot tell anyone your name. We must hide our ears when we go into civilization, and we must not speak of what we know. I need you to stay close to me and not wander off.”

Cethleann is quiet at first, her brows knitting together, “That is…much to take in…”

“I know.”

“Saints? Hiding ourselves? You have told me when I was a child that I should never hide myself for who I am.”

“I know.”

“This is absurd. We are going to a small village for supplies. Is this necessary?”

“I’m afraid it is. Were it any different I would not suggest going through such lengths to hide ourselves.”

“I do not-” she cuts herself off, as though a thought forced its way into her mind before she could say anything more, “Mother. Her grave is it…?”

“I do not know… I never went to see.”

“Father we-”

“And we will, in due time. For now we must remain concerned only about the supply trip. Then we can discuss where we go and what we do from there.”

“Alright,” there is a reluctance to her agreement as she stands.

“I have an old cloak hung up, you can use it.” It’s his old one, from when he was a child and begged for his father to buy him one. Of course, he outgrew it, but he thinks it will be a perfect fit for Cethleann.

“What about you, father?”

“I have another one. You need not worry about me.”

The following day they leave for the closest town, it’s a few miles distance from their home in Zanado, but they’ve made longer and farther treks in war time. Perhaps he should acquire a steed to make such trips easier? No, horses never much liked him.

Cichol watches in amusement as Cethleann takes in the changes with wonder in her eyes. It reminds him of a simpler time, back before the war, before the tragedy of the Red Canyon. Rather— it seems simpler now, but that’s what nostalgia does he supposes; putting everything through a rose-colored lens. 

They make a few stops along the way whenever their paths would cross with a traveling merchant’s. Cichol asks his questions on the happenings of the world and directions while Cethleann listens intently to the first half then grows distracted by their wares.

Bidding their farewells shortly thereafter, they continue on.

The village they set out to travel to has..._ changed _ since the last time Cichol was here. It’s bigger, for starts, and it seems they have some sort of _ festival _ today. Cethleann’s eyes shine in wonder as she smiles up at him.

“Fine,” he relents, “we can partake in the festival. _ Somewhat_.”

Cichol resigns to his fate fairly quick to be dragged behind her as she stops at all the stalls the merchants set out. 

“Pardon me,” there’s a man standing to the side of one of the market booths, covered head to toe in armor, from the looks of it he’s a knight of some sort, “can you tell me what this celebration is all about? I must admit I don’t keep very close track of the days.”

The man laughs a hearty laugh, “Live under a rock, huh?”

Cichol feels heat rise to his cheeks, slightly embarrassed by the remark, “Something of the sort.”

“Don’t worry about it. Today’s Saint Indech day, normally the Church makes it out to be a somber event, but towns like this one see it as an excuse to party.”

“I see…” He’s versed himself in the Church’s teachings but this- this he was not aware of. If Saint Indech has a holy day then that must mean so does Macuil, and Cethleann… And himself. He’s not sure how he feels about it.

“Father! Come look at this,” The man raises his eyebrows as he watches Cethleann ran to Cichol’s side and grab his hand, starting to tug him away.

“Ah, of course,” Cichol looks up to him and nods, “I must thank you for the information.”

“Think nothing of it, your daughter looks like she’s in a rush.” He smiles.

Cichol nods again and follows after Cethleann to see what all the commotion is about. She points to a piece of paper posted on a board in front of the local tavern. He stares at it long and hard, then looks down to Cethleann in confusion.

“A violin contest?”

“Very specifically a fiddling competition!” She claps her hands in front of her mouth, her smile wide and-

Oh.

_ Oh no. _

“No. Absolutely not. I will _ not _ be competing in some… some _ meaningless _ contest.”

She looks at him with pleading eyes.

He knows he’s weak.

He lets out a long suffering sigh, “Fine. If you can find me a violin I will do it.”

“Excellent!”

So now he’s here.

Standing in a line with other contestants. How did he let her talk him into this. This is a bad idea, he’s going to mess up. It doesn’t help that he’s the last in line which only makes the wait more nerve-wracking.

He doesn’t ever play for other people, just people he knows and even then that’s not often at all. Especially in the present when he doesn’t _ have _ anyone he knows, aside from his own daughter.

Cichol sort of tunes out the rest of the contestants’ songs whenever their up, stuck in his own mind thinking on what he might play. Most of the time it’s just improvise, these sound a little more practiced.

He’s brought out of his thoughts when he notices that he’s finally up. He lets out a breath and steps up to the stage.

He eyes the crowd warily as he brings the violin up to his chin, his eyes making contact with Cethleann’s. He relaxes.

The first note rings out, it sounds wrong and he swears under his breath, quickly moving to tune it, “Apologies.”

The crowd laughs.

He inhales. Exhales.

And begins to play.

His fingers move quickly up and down the neck as he runs the bow back and forth over the instrument. For a moment he feels like he’s thrown back in time.

_ “Can you play it again, my love.” His wife smiles at him warmly, as she lays down in the grass next to him. _

_ Cichol’s cheeks warm as he sets the violin in his lap, “I am not the best at playing it.” _

_ “No,” she admits and he feels even more embarrassed, “but I love how you make it sound. Like you’re putting all those thoughts you won’t tell me into it.” _

_ He picks it back up, face beet red, “I’ll try.” _

There is a sadness in the way he plays, stunted and some half finished notes that might sound like he’s not putting his all into it one were to listen for a few seconds.

He begins to tap his foot to the temp he’s set and soon the crowd seems to join in, tapping or clapping and cheering.

And then it’s over and he feels the presence at his side gone. 

_ Goodbye Midir._

“It is disappointing you did not win,” Cethleann starts as they head back home.

“I suppose so.”

“You should have paid attention to the crowd! They really loved it.”

“I… admit that I suppose I have missed playing for people. It was...fun.” He smiles softly down to her and she smiles back.

He hasn’t healed, and he won’t for a long time, neither will Cethleann, he thinks. But… he has to have faith they’ll be alright one day. One day they won’t have to hide themselves. One day they will be free from self induced isolation. One day they’ll be _ safe _.

It may not be today, or even a hundred years from now, but he has to believe that day will come.

“Let’s head home.”

**Author's Note:**

> this was suppose to be a drabble.  
i have a test in 1 minute so i didn't proofread the rest of it  
also the knight is jeralt  
ANOTHER NOTE: seteth is gay and trans and his wife was a she/her gay named midir because fuck the gender binary, they're dragons they can do what they want


End file.
